


The Dwarf That Came To Breakfast

by ThreeFeathers



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Dwalin doesn't know what he's started..., Food, Food Porn, Gen, M/M, Proper Hobbits, What About Elevensies?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeFeathers/pseuds/ThreeFeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin arrives at Bag End, and Bilbo feeds him. Things are never the same again.</p><p>Slow-burn drabble romance built around gratuitous food porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

This is how it happened:

The morning was cold, damp - that special combination that sinks through the warmest of furs and leaves a faint liquid chill on the skin. Consequently the Dwarf known as Dwalin, son of Fundin, was in a terrible mood. He’d lost his belt to the nibbles of a mouse in the night, and the chain-mail he wore sat ill, loose where it shouldn’t be. On top of that, some peevish little halfling boy had tried to steer him wrong a few roads back! A sharp word had put him straight, and this was the place he’d been directed to: the little green door in the little green hill was Bag End, home of their prospective burglar. 

It was...quaint. Dwalin grimaced.

That didn’t bode well.

\----

Bilbo Baggins spluttered uselessly as the Dwarf barged into his nice warm Hobbit-Hole, but his heart wasn’t in it. It was hard to miss the loose sway of his mail and shirt - Bilbo wouldn’t have been surprised to learn the poor dwarf was starving. What if he hadn’t had Elevensies? Bilbo would have to set out some food.

Then it occurred to him - the Dwarf had clearly been traveling hard. What if he hadn’t even had Second Breakfast? Bilbo’s eyes widened. What if…

What if he hadn’t eaten since yesterday?!

\----

First came the stew: perfectly tender chunks of fine steak, spring carrots, celery, plump white button mushrooms and tiny yellow potatoes simmered for hours in rich dark stock, with just a little bit of rosemary to give it depth. Then the bread - crisp and golden on the outside and soft as a dream on the inside, so rich butter was unnecessary. And a glass of rich dark wine, tasting strongly of cranberry and faintly of tannin.

He finished it in record time, and would have gone for seconds but then - 

Then there was the meat pie, ground beef and caramelized onions and mushrooms in a thick gravy, surrounded by a lovely golden pastry. Each bite brought with it the the richness of heavy cream in the gravy, or the unexpected sweetness of a slice of roasted garlic. A small serving dish was set quietly beside his plate, and it proved to hold perfectly steamed young asparagus, drizzled in butter and flakes of almond. A mug of golden ale sat at his elbow, not his usual at all but a fine mouthful, thick and tangy, nonetheless. 

All of it was rich fare, and he was full and content with the world and the Hobbit in front of him, except - 

Then there were vibrantly red tomatoes on a plate, with their tops cut off: they had been stuffed with a heavily spiced combination of rice and chicken. There were dark-skinned, pale-fleshed zucchinis cut lengthwise and adorned with black pepper and melted cheese. The very edges were singed black, but it only made the melted cheddar sharper on the tongue. Then, wonder of wonders, there was a bowl with a tiny scoop of shaved ice, an intensely tangy lemon with a sprig of parsley to chew beside it.

By far the finest meal Dwalin had ever had, and he was now feeling distinctly friendly to the fine little Hobbit who had fed him so much, so willingly, and so well. And he would thank the little fellow - once he finished the dessert he had just been served, of course. 

And what a dessert...First there was a slice of cake, thick moist chocolate cake studded with walnuts and chunks of particularly creamy white chocolate. Dwalin hadn’t so much as seen chocolate since before the Dragon. Then there was a set of tiny pastries, light and flakey with chunks of bright tart apple hidden within. A thick-walled glass mug was set down by the wonderful little Hobbit - it proves to be filled with a dense milky drink that tasted of nutmeg and cinnamon, and the faint, tell-tale burn of alcohol underneath it all. 

Dwalin looked at his plate, then at the dishes he had been served from, all still quite full. He smiled.

\----

Bilbo nodded to himself as the Dwarf stared dreamily at his dessert, taking a bite here or there. There was a Dwarf properly fed, no doubt, and looking much friendlier for it. Really, he wasn’t so bad, was he - bigger than anyone with any sense, of course, but at least more sensibly-sized than those Men in Bree. Nice big hands, Bilbo would lay bets that they’d be useful in the garden. He flushed faintly, looking at...Dwalin, wasn’t it. Dwalin’s beard was rather fine, too. He wasn’t all that intimidating, really, once you fed him up a bit. And he had a fine sweet smile.

\----

Dwalin, son of Fundin on that day did swear that if Thorin II Oakenshield, son of Thrain didn’t convince the Hobbit to burgle for them, he’d best be prepared to march to Erebor with said Oakenshield so far up his ass all he’d be able to taste was splinters.


	2. Chapter 2

“Thirteen of you?! And Gandalf besides!”

Dwalin nodded from across the heavily-laden table, watching the Hobbit fret with sharp eyes. Bilbo nibbled his lower lip, thinking. His larder could probably take it, even with that many empty stomachs, but this talk of adventuring….

The Hobbit gave a decisive nod. “Well, I don’t know about this adventuring business, but I can at least lay out a proper spread. How long until they get here?”

Dwalin considered. “Probably not before the sun sets, Master Hobbit.”

“Just Bilbo will do, thank you.” Teeth sank in to his lower lip again as he considered what he could make of his supplies for so many dwarrows without leaving the larder shamefully bare. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to help me get some things at the market? Only I’m going to need some extras if I’m to set out a proper spread for your Company, Master Dwalin.”

Dwalin’s eyes bulged a bit. “More food?! There’s enough still on the table to feed the lot of them!”

The look he got in return was equally shocked. “Why, that was just Second Breakfast! I suppose it was a bit big, we could count it as Elevensies as well, but...I’ve still got to feed the both of us Luncheon and Tea before your friends join us for Dinner and…”

Dwalin made a faint, garbled noise in his throat, and Bilbo resolutely took it as an offer to carry the groceries. Really, that Gandalf was going to get a talking-to when he showed his face, sending him such a large group to feed without even a day to prepare!

Well, he’d manage. Bilbo Baggins was a proper hobbit, and proper hobbits never let a guest leave hungry.

\----

There was a faint, persistent ringing in Dwalin’s ears as he followed behind his host, carrying a variety of neatly wrapped brown packages stacked as high as his nose. The sheer volume of food in his hands was distracting - worse was the ideas that bloomed in his mind every time Bilbo added something to the pile.

A round of brie - would it be melted on small salty home-baked crackers? Served with bread and a bit of sweet jam? A basket of ripe yellow pears - would they be baked in rich pastry jackets? Sliced into a salad? And then there was the fish and the meat, the vegetables and the grains and the herbs and spices…

Despite his burden, he couldn’t help the bounce in his step: the immediate future looked so very, very good. 

He scanned the marketplace, more out of habit then out of a true belief that the little folk posed a threat, and nearly bumped right in to Bilbo. The Hobbit smiled up at him, eyes bright. “I think we’ve got all we need, Master Dwarf. And just in time to have Luncheon!”

Luncheon, it turned out, was a lighter meal (for a distinctly Hobbit value of ‘lighter’). Bilbo made open-faced sandwiches of smoked salmon, creamed cheese, and tarragon on crusty bread, a glass of lavender lemonade, and a plate of little skewers: chicken wrapped around mushrooms and coated in pesto, then roasted over the fire in the kitchen while Bilbo made a plate of cold cuts. There was cured and honeyed ham, sliced paper-thin. There were thick slices of cold roast beef, crusted with crackling and dijon mustard on the edges and a boat of gravy made from the drippings to go with it. There were tiny, intensely red sausages that tasted richly of beef and faintly of cinnamon - Bilbo’s gentle admonishment to go easy came a moment too late. The spice in them hit the palette and Dwalin had to take a break to let his eyes stop streaming and his tongue recover from the unexpected heat.

Bilbo laughed softly even as he served Dwalin a small bowl of plain yogurt to cut the heat. “Yes, they’re rather dangerous, hm? Next time listen to the cook!” 

Then, finest of all, Bilbo served dessert. He had taken two of the pears bought earlier, remove their core and skin, stuffed them with walnuts, raisins, honey and nutmeg and then left them to roast while the two of them ate the rest of it. By the time the pears came out they were just barely firm enough to hold their shape, and the fruit melted on the tongue: warm from the fire and warm from the spice, sweet and nutty and made perfect by a small amount of cool thick cream poured atop them.

Full and content, Dwalin was perhaps a touch more generous with information than he should have been.

\----

“A quest to regain your homeland from a dragon…” Bilbo floundered.

“Aye. It’s been far too many years that the halls of Erebor have been home to terrible Smaug. Now, he’s not been seen in some time now - like as not we’ll find a rotten carcass atop our gold, but if not - or if goblins and the like have moved in - then we’ll need someone light and quick and easily overlooked: that’s where you come in, Bilbo Baggins.” Dwalin’s low rumble of a voice swelled to fill every corner of the Hobbit-Hole, leaving Bilbo squirming.

“Me? I - Master Dwalin - I don’t know what Gandalf’s told you, but I’m really just a hobbit, I don’t - the likes of me doesn’t go on adventures, or, or epic quests. I’m more suited to the kitchen than a weapon -”

Dwalin looked vaguely panicked, and set a heavy hand gently on his shoulder. “Well, its not really an adventure, is it? Just a bit of travel and some sneaking about at the end, and more gold than you’ll ever spend awaiting you at the end.”

“I - well - I’m not really one for gold - and you mentioned goblins -” Bilbo dithered and wrung his hands, then looked up at Dwalin with wide, worried eyes.

“Master Baggins,” Dwalin rumbled, going down to one knee, “I swear to you that I will put my blades between you and any foe that might seek you for the duration of the quest, should you come along, and -”

The big Dwarf stood and shuffled, and found a sudden fascination with his boots. “And, well, if you would perhaps consent to cook now and again…”

Suddenly more embarrassed (and pleased) then worried, Bilbo joined Dwalin in contemplating his feet. Really, he should give himself a trim, they were getting shaggy. “I, well, I’m not saying I’ll go, not without meeting the rest of your Company, but if I do...Well, if it’s up to me you won’t be going hungry even once, Mister Dwalin, I promise.”

He took a deep breath, and smiled up at his large companion. “In the mean time, why don’t you tell me about these companions of yours while I clean up a bit? We’ll have Tea in a few hours and then get I’ll started in on making enough for Dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less food, more talk, but the next chapter is the Company and then we're on to Dinner and Supper!


	3. Chapter 3

Within a minute of picking up his broom, Bilbo had found himself seated outside the front door, pipe in hand and a bemused look on his face. The day was beginning to chill again, their brief patch of sunshine at the market giving way to grey, and likely it would begin raining again soon after nightfall. Behind him, Dwalin swept, dusted, mopped, and did the dishes with the sort of intense concentration normally employed in making explosives, not washing up. Not that Bilbo knew how to make explosives! (...and never you mind what that Fortinbras Took said on the matter, no one has been able to prove Lobelia’s incident with the exploding tap was his fault.)

It was just that, well, the Dwarf was so big and fierce and Bilbo knew he should treat the show of gratitude with grace, but if he turned and looked at Dwalin, bedecked in apron and kerchief and scowling down at a particularly difficult pan...well. There would be laughter, which was hardly the response such earnest and kindhearted effort required. And speaking of responses, what was he going to do about this adventure business? Dwalin had made it all sound quite simple, if worryingly dangerous in patches, but he could hardly just up and leave, now could he? 

And so Bilbo fretted and Dwalin cleaned, and had it not been for Tea, all might have gone in an entirely different direction.

\----

Having shooed Dwalin out of the kitchen, Bilbo set about serving the two of them some light refreshments for Tea. First came a teapot of his own blended black tea, accompanied by fresh blueberry scones - rich and crumbly, the whole blueberries a burst of bright flavor across the tongue. Then there was a bowl of vivid strawberry soup, a lattice pattern of white cream decorating the deep red of the soup and lending a smoothness to the surprisingly tangy concoction. Last was a bowl of simple, unadorned blackberries, to nibble while pots bubbled and things baked in the kitchen.

That last one was the source of their trouble, for Dwalin’s large fingers made a quick mess of the berries and Bilbo, in exasperation, plucked a berry out of the bowl and popped it into Dwalin’s mouth without thought. And perhaps nothing would have come of it, except the Hobbit’s fingers rested just a single moment too long against Dwalin’s lips.

The single point of contact sucked the air from the room, left Dwalin frozen still and Bilbo wide-eyed, staring at his hand as though it belonged to another. Their eyes met.

Bilbo’s fingers trembled faintly against Dwalin’s lower lip.

Holding the Hobbit’s eyes, as fearless in the heart as on the battlefield, Dwalin pressed his lips to the pads of Bilbo’s fingers in a gentle, deliberately slow kiss. Bilbo’s breath hitched faintly, and heat bloomed across his cheeks, but he pulled away nevertheless.

“That’s not very proper, Master Dwarf,” said Bilbo, voice hushed.

“It’s Dwalin. And I’ve never been one for propriety. Still, if it offends you I’ll not intrude where I’m not wanted.” Dwalin’s tone was disappointed, but matter-of-fact as he leaned back in his chair.

“No!” Bilbo burst out, then subsided in embarrassment. “No, I don’t mean...I just, I don’t exactly have people knocking the door down, you know! And I’ve barely known you a day! This - It’s - augh!”

Bilbo dropped his face in to his hands, frustrated speechless. He took a deep breath, then another, and into the heavy silence of the room, he said, “Master Dwalin, I should be very happy to explore - to explore a relationship with you, as you seem an honorable Dwarf and capable besides, but I’ve not known you long and I’ll not be rushed, you hear me?”

He leaned forward, heedless of the food on the table, face intent. “The heart is a precious thing, you know, not something to give out willy-nilly. I would know the person I’m involving myself with. I’m not rejecting you! But I’m not looking for a romp, Master Dwalin.”

For a moment the silence lingered. The Dwalin smiled, small but genuine. “Aye, well enough. Best you know your own mind and heart before you share ‘em. But you’ve not rejected me, Bilbo Baggins, so I shall take this as leave to pay you court.”

Bilbo went pink, but nodded. “And I shall do the same to you then...should I join your quest.”

A faint frown creased Dwalin’s brow, but at Bilbo’s curious look shook it away. “In that case, I shall take what I can while the moment is certain: tell me of your life.”

It was an order, not a question, but Bilbo found himself quite content to chatter to the Dwarf as he began crafting a feast.

\----

Balin, son of Fundin and brother to Dwalin, was in a terrible mood. The roads of the Shine crossed and doubled back and wove together in nigh-incomprehensible patterns. It didn’t help that the Hobbits clearly regarded him as a suspicious character, squinting and hurrying off whenever he paused before one. It was with a certain sense of relief that he heard his name shouted in the unmistakable, rambunctious tones of the the Princes of Erebor. 

“Balin! Balin!” The boys came barreling down from the top of a small rise, Fili and then Kili. They skidded to a halt in front of him, the both of them grinning. Fili reached out and clasped his shoulder, bringing a glad smile to Balin’s face.

“‘Tis good to see the both of you, my boys. Where is your Uncle? Any idea where this Bag End is supposed to be?” Balin could not help the fondness of his tone as he gazed at the young Princes.

“Uncle went off on his own to the Iron Hills, said he’d meet us here,” Kili told him. “Only with this place being a maze, I’d bet anything he’s gone and got himself lost!”

Fili laughed and Balin shook his head at Kili. “Mayhap you’re right, my lad, but if Thorin hears that you’ll get it. Now, about this Hobbit hole, you two.”

“Back that way, and then left twice and right at the one with the little red door and the shoddy brass knob. What d’you call ‘em? Hobbit-Holes? Well, no matter. I hope our host has dinner set out, I’m starved!” Kili grinned.

“I’m sure there will be something to tide you over, lad. Shall we?” And so one group of Dwarrows advanced on Bag End, their fellows not far behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GUYS. I have so many lovely reviews. THANK YOU, it's really gratifying!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No food porn here, but hey look, the Company! Next is Thorin and Gandalf and dinner.

“...and then, of course, nothing would do but for Father to build her a proper home, you see. The whole thing was the talk of the Shire well into my tweens, it was such a scandal! I remember my cousin Fortinbras poking about in the study when I was, oh, about twenty-five? He found my mother’s sword and the shriek he gave! He nearly deafened the lot of us, the silly thing…” Bilbo chattered as he transferred covered bowls, pots, and serving platters from the kitchen to the dining-room.

Dwalin regarded him fondly from where he was laying out cutlery and plates. The Hobbit seemed to have no end of stories about the goings-on of the Shire, and his willingness to share was startling after spending so long among suspicious Men and others of his own kind, who were usually quite taciturn. 

Bilbo, however, was quite happy to share nearly anything that Dwalin could think to ask - he knew about the terrifying Lobelia, the wild Tooks, the Brandybucks and the faithful Gamgees, about recipe-theft and silver-theft and food-theft and drapery-theft and (in the case of a particularly unpleasant Man) purse-theft and horse-theft and clothing-theft, as well. He knew who grew the best pipe-leaf and the best mushrooms. He knew about Bounders and Rangers and, very quietly and very briefly, he knew of the Fell Winter which had stolen Bilbo’s parents from him. But the Hobbit was a hardy thing, and apparently not prone to sadness as he was to fretting - Bilbo had moved on to the story of his parent’s first meeting without much more than a brief, sad smile.

The tales of theft, though - most involved stealing things back from sticky-fingered relatives, and yet…

For all his protestations that he wasn’t the type for adventure, it was clear that Bilbo had created his own share of mischief. If a fraction of his tales were true (and Dwalin was inclined to think well of his host) then the Hobbit was light on his feet with clever fingers and a knack for thinking his way out of a mess. 

Dwalin would have insisted on his presence simply on the basis of his cooking, but it seemed that Bilbo would make a fine Burglar, as well.

(Not that the word ‘burglar’ would pass his lips - Bilbo Baggins considered himself a Proper Hobbit, and Dwalin would do nothing that might rob him of dinner.)

(Or rob him of kisses.)

\----

The last of the serving dishes was on the table, the lanterns were lit, and the places were set. Bilbo smiled, pleased with the warm light and the tantalizing smells filling his home. A glance at Dwalin as he sat beside the large Dwarf deepened his smile and added a faint flush to his cheeks - he was equally pleased with his companion, who had helped him prepare and listened to him babble and snuck warm kisses whenever Bilbo’s hands were empty.

Altogether a good day, despite the surprises that started it. (Not that Gandalf wouldn’t get what was coming to him, mind. Really, the wizard should know better.)

It was with contentment and good humor that Bilbo settled against Dwalin’s side, sunk both hands into his thick beard, and kissed him firmly on the lips. The Dwarf made a surprised sound into the kiss, but went along readily, and they exchanged slow kisses in the light of the lanterns. 

Then large hands scooped him up and, laughing against Dwalin’s lips, Bilbo was deposited in the Dwarf’s lap. The kiss deepened, and the slow slide of Dwalin’s tongue was a welcome thing. He cupped the back of the Hobbit’s head with both large hands, nibbled Bilbo’s lower lip, tangled his tongue with Bilbo’s and drew him into a series of increasingly intense kisses. Bilbo relaxed into the Dwarf’s warm body, hands still tangled in his beard, and quite forget about silly things like guests and wizards and adventures.

Content, the two of them barely parted for half a candle-mark, hands migrating in a distinctly improper fashion and only coming up for air when Bilbo was quite breathless - and even then, he had time for only a gasp or two before Dwalin’s lips found his again.

The two only roused when three loud knocks came at the door. Dwalin’s head came up and Bilbo’s heart began to race: the Company. It must be.

He sprang up, running his fingers hastily through mussed curls and attempting to straighten his shirt and button his waistcoat at the same time.

“Oh dear, oh dear, I - have I got any -”

“I’ll get the door,” Dwalin interrupted, “It’ll be fine, Bilbo - you just straighten up, I’ll manage that lot.”

“I - but -” Dwalin’s long stride had already carried him out of the room. Bilbo sighed, but finished neatening up, and made his way to the dining-room to check that everything was in order. Really, some Hobbit he was, gadding about with the state of the dining-room all unchecked and with his guests at his door!

Not, not that the, ah, ‘gadding about’ hadn’t been most enjoyable, mind you. Bilbo flushed deeply red, and began busily wiping an already-pristine plate. 

...most enjoyable.

\----

Bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet, Kili lifted a hand to knock again. Balin caught him, amused despite himself. “Your stomach can wait for our Burglar to make it to the door, lad.”

Behind him, Oin snorted and Ori shifted nervously. All the Company but his brother, Thorin, and the wizard had joined them. They'd trickled in, by twos and threes, as they made their way to Bag End - a sight which had sent more than one Hobbit scurrying indoors to peer at the strange procession from behind their curtains.

Fili smirked at his brother, who promptly stuck his tongue out. Balin sighed and Dori rolled his eyes behind them. For all their battle prowess, the two princes were full of mischief and not shy (nor particularly wise) about where and when they let it out.

Finally, the sound of the latch moving drew their attention back to the door - and opened to silhouette (of all people) Dwalin.

Dwalin, who wore his mail and held one of his axes and aimed a thunderous scowl at the lot of them. Balin only raised an eyebrow, quite immune to his brother’s intimidating appearance, but the rest of the Dwarrows went abruptly still and quiet.

“Now,” said Dwalin, voice slow as molasses and coupled with a death-glare the likes of which Balin hadn’t seen in years, “I think, before you come in, we’d best lay some rules.”

The other eyebrow joined the first, and Balin tilted his head, examining his brother. For all his menace, he appeared well - and dry, so clearly he’d been at Bag End a while…

“First,” his brother said, cutting off Balin’s thoughts, “If I catch a single one of you pinching anything, I’ll cut each of you fingers off at the first joint.”(Nori stuck in hands behind his back with alacrity).

“Second, you’ll be treating our host, one Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo Baggins, with every scrap of respect you can manage.” Balin wasn’t sure his eyebrows could climb higher, but they tried. Since when did Dwalin demand good manners?

“And third, if any of you idiots do a single thing which might frighten him off this Quest, I’ll open you from stem to sternum and hang you with you own innards for the crows to enjoy.” This was said in a deadly, deliberate whisper.

“Is that absolutely clear?”

“Crystal.” Squeaked Kili, and the others nodded vigorously.

Dwalin lowered the axe, dropped the scowl, and gave something that looked distinctly like a smile. “Good. Then drop your weapons on the table and your boots by the door and I’ll let him know dinner’s to be served.”

What in all the world was going on?!


	5. Chapter 5

Gandalf was some half a candle-mark from Bilbo’s home when he spotted Thorin. He was rather glad that the Dwarf hadn’t yet noticed him - it gave him a moment to smooth the smirk from his lips. Thorin was standing at the corner of three intersecting roads, peering from under heavy brows at what a glance revealed to be a map of the Shine - soggy from the rain and quite upside down.

Gandalf smothered a chuckle and hailed the erstwhile leader of their potential Quest. “Ho, Thorin son of Thrain! How fare you this eve?”

Thorin’s head jerked up in surprise, and then he directed his customary scowl at the Wizard. “Well enough, for all that you sent me into a confounded maze of a place with barely any directions. And this thrice-cursed drizzle!” 

Gandalf rested a hand briefly on Thorin’s stiff shoulder, chuckling, and guided the Dwarf down the left-most path. “Have no worries, Thorin, the house isn’t far - and I daresay there will be something to eat, even if poor Bilbo isn’t quite - ah - expecting so many guests…”

\----

By the time the many, many Dwarrows had shed boot and weapon out in his hallway, Bilbo had managed to straighten his clothes and light the candles against the gloom of the evening. Nibbling his lip as he listened to the fast-paced and entirely incomprehensible conversation going on in the next room, he began uncovering the many, many dishes on the table.

He breathed in deeply, worry eased by the familiar and soothing smell of a good meal - and this particular meal was the type that had his sturdy oak table groaning faintly under its weight.

Gradually, he became aware of a peculiarly focused kind of silence behind him.

He turned.

The Dwarf with the hat and the braid-pigtail-whatchamacallits was standing in the door to the dining room, eyes impossibly wide. His fellows clustered behind him, looking equally thunderstruck. Bilbo smiled his welcome, pleased with their reaction. A hand came up, and the Dwarf with the hat removed said hat from his head to clutch it to his chest. “Mister - Mister Baggins. Is that, I mean...is that for US?”

Bilbo flushed a little, even more pleased now. “Yes, yes, of course! Mister Dwalin kindly informed me you might be hungry from travel, so I cooked up a tad more than I usually do - I hope it’s to your liking! Come, sit, sit…”

He ushered the Dwarrows to the table, making sure each was seated (and carefully insuring Dwalin sat next to him) - and then frowned.

“Well, we seem to be missing one of your number, as well as that daft wizard - have any of you an idea if they will arrive soon? If they’ll only be a minute or two, perhaps we should delay eating until - “

“NO!” The shout came from every direction, and quite shocked Bilbo. He clutched his chest, eyes wide in surprise. Dwalin, having just taken his seat, directed a truly virulent glare about the table, and the Dwarrows fell silent immediately.

“No - ah - that is, they wouldn’t begrudge us a few minute’s head start, not after so much travel!” A desperate glance from the others had Balin chiming in with alacrity. “Indeed, Mister Baggins, it would be quite churlish of them to have us wait - and they’re the ones running late!” 

Bilbo blinked at them for a moment, taking in the faintly desperate way they focused on him.

“By all means, then,” he said faintly, gesturing to the food. It was all the permission the group needed - the Dwarrows descended on the laden table as one.

\----

The dish closest to Bofur’s plate held thick cuts of roasted beef, the outside crusted thickly with crackling and rosemary, resting in its own deep brown juices. He heaped several slices onto his plate before he passed it on, and was unable to resist popping a sliver into his mouth.

His eyes snapped shut, an entirely involuntary reaction: the meat was tender and savory and simply fell to pieces the moment it touched his tongue. The crackling was faintly salty, tasting of the herbs it had been rubbed with and gloriously, unashamedly of rich fat. 

By Mahal.

He nearly lunged at the next dish to come within range. Investigation proved that the little pot was filled with freshly baked buns, flaky and golden-brown. They had been made with so much butter that a bite just melted the moment it entered his mouth. He took two more with no shame for his greed - across the table, Bombur had piled his plate so high that all he could see of the other was the top half of his head.

Next was a dish of stewed vegetables - not particularly appealing, with all the meat on the table. Except that to his left was Ori, greens-hating Ori, who appeared to have the remains of some on his plate and was clearly angling for more. Bofur added a scoop to his plate. It turned out to be stems of broccoli, spears of asparagus, and crisp water chestnuts drenched in a warm vinaigrette that tasted strongly of almond and ginger. He sighed happily, and reached for the next dish.

It was a small, still-covered pot. Removal of the lid told him why, for half the dish was occupied by tiny crimson sausages accompanied by equally small yellow and green peppers which Bofur recognized as one of the single spiciest things he had ever encountered. The other half was filled with yogurt and finely-chopped mint. The sight of the dish made his mouth water and the taste of it made his eyes water - it was spicy enough that the yogurt was a limited help at best.

Their host (quite a dapper little fellow) saw his plight and handed him a thick-walled mug with a sympathetic, if amused, smile. He took a gulp without bothering to check the contents, and was rewarded with a combination of darkest chocolate, heavy cream, and cloves which rolled across his tongue and down his throat like he was drinking silk. A faint sharpness told him the drink was probably alcoholic, as well.

Recovered, he reapplied himself to the table. He snagged another platter which, to his absolute astonishment, held not one but five roasted quails, stuffed with some mixture of bread, celery, onion, and red wine. Exactly how well-off was their host, that he would provide such food to tinkers and miners sight unseen on the mere possibility that he would be joining their Quest?

The house was quite nice, and undeniably well kept. A second look showed that everything in it was well-used, though, from pots and pans with many a small dent to chairs with the arms worn smooth with use. So perhaps not so well-off…

...but who showed such kindness to strangers?

Perhaps he wished to impress the Line of Durin? But they were little better off than the rest of them, and there was no guarantee that the Quest would succeed…

Well. A mystery to investigate when a pot filled with creamy seafood chowder wasn’t passing under his nose. And what chowder - shrimp and haddock, of course, but also mussels and flakes of scallops and thick slices of onion. The shrimp were easily the size of his palm, and shockingly tender - no over-boiled and leathery flesh here, just tender pinkness and the bite of black pepper in the creamy base. 

Contented with what he had collected for his plate, Bofur paused a moment to look around at the others. All of them were applying themselves with single-minded determination to the food (and no wonder) except, oddly, for Dwalin.

Dwalin, who was certainly eating, but...but he kept pausing to look at their host, seated beside him. No, not beside him - very nearly on TOP of him! What - Dwalin DID NOT tolerate unknowns in his personal space, but the little Hobbit was practically snuggled up against him!

Bofur swept his eyes up the table in an attempt to determine whether anyone else had noticed, and was abruptly distracted by something entirely different.

He’d sampled not even half of what was on offer.

By MAHAL.

\----

When Thorin and Gandalf came to the round green door which marked Bag End, the sounds of a large group eating were clearly audible through the open windows.

“Well,” said Gandalf, “I suppose we should just head straight in, hm? Since they appear to have started without us.”

Thorin scowled, which Gandalf serenely accepted as agreement. He opened the door, and led the other in to the front hall. 

Gandalf had rather hoped to be among the first to arrive, but perhaps things had gone well even without his presence - there didn’t appear to have been blood spilled, and Hobbit cooking was certainly enough to soften a Dwarf’s attitude, even with Bilbo caught unprepared. He glanced at Thorin, who was examining the mess of weapons and boots littering the floor with a sour expression.

Well, MOST attitudes, at least.

“Now, I’m not quite sure how Mister Baggins will have reacted to your companions - we should, perhaps, be prepared to use diplomacy in this situation, hm?” He raised his eyebrows at Thorin.

“Is your chosen Burglar so lacking in nerve that he cannot stand for himself?” Thorin glared at him, and Gandalf sighed.

“No - just - I did not exactly tell him you lot were coming, you see.” Gandalf looked distinctly sheepish around the edges.

“Is that so.” Thorin said, voice flat. He blew out his breath in a gusty sigh. “Well. No time like the present. After you, Tharkun.”

Gandalf smiled, eyes twinkling, and led the way to the dining room. In the doorway, the both of them paused, staring - for every single other member of the Company was bent to their food, eating with shockingly good manners. Forks and knives were in use, as were (the real shocker) napkins! And - was Ori eating greens?

And the food! Why, Gandalf was shocked the table was bearing the weight of it all! 

Well. Clearly, someone had arrived early. Still, even with events quite reversed from what he had wanted, Gandalf wasn’t put out - not with all that lovely food available!

Finally, Bilbo spotted them. And scowled so thunderously it rather put Thorin to shame.

“Gandalf the Grey, you insufferable, inconsiderate - augh!” Every head in the room snapped around - and suddenly the room descended into a cacophony of voices, as every Dwarf raised his voice to greet Thorin and Gandalf over all the others.

\----

Bilbo had been quite content watching the open and extremely flattering enjoyment of his food from his perch half into Dwalin’s lap. The Gandalf and that other Dwarf - Thorin, their leader, it must be - had appeared in the doorway and suddenly all his ire came rushing back. Gandalf had given him no choice in this gathering, and no warning - what if Dwalin hadn't arrived early?! He'd have been overrun with Dwarrows without a speck of preparation!

He was out of his seat in a heartbeat, quite ignoring the greeting flying above his head as he stomped towards the Wizard. 

“Now, Bilbo -” Gandalf started - and was stopped by a small hand snatching the end of his beard and dragging him down to Hobbit-height. Bilbo was flushed, eyes near burning with vexation, and his voice rose easily above the clamor.

“Not so much as a word of warning - no consideration - and what if I hadn’t had any food for them, eh!? Did you think about that, you mad fool, or were you too focused on amusing yourself!?” Bilbo’s voice was thunderous, silencing the Dwarrows and turning every eye to where he and Gandalf stood (Gandalf still awkwardly bent by the grip in his poor beard).

“I should shear you like a sheep! I should make you sleep on the doorstep! I should - I should -” Bilbo paused. “I know EXACTLY what I should do. Sit down.”

“Bilbo -” Gandalf tried as the Hobbit untangled his hand.

“SIT DOWN.” Gandalf sat.

Bilbo headed for the cluster of Dwarrows hovering wide-eyed in front of the table. The new one (Thorin, sone of Thrain, son of someone...blast, what was the title Dwalin had told him again?) seemed caught between surprise and a scowl. Bilbo gave a hurried little bow.

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service, help yourself to the food - I won’t be but a moment -” he said, and was off before Thorin could respond.

\----

From his Man-sized seat, Gandalf gave a somewhat hesitant chuckle. “And you were doubting his nerve, Thorin!”

“Well, I’ll not make that mistake again - and neither will you, I’d wager.” Thorin’s dry comment made the Wizard wince a bit.

“Ah - yes, well, I wasn’t expecting him to be quite this put out with me…”

The degree of Bilbo’s indignation became obvious when he returned from the kitchen with a bowl and a spoon - 

A plain clay bowl, filled not with savory treats but with utterly plain porridge: no butter, no sugar, and not so much as the shadow of a single spice.

Gandalf’s supper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter is unofficially titled The Dinning: Return of the Food Porn)


End file.
